


The Taste of Him

by draculard



Series: Nightthrawn 15 Day Ficlets [10]
Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Alternate version of Thrawn 2017 where Nightswan takes Eli's place, Angst, But also very much not, Corruption, Dark Side corruption, Death Star (Star Wars), Far Outsiders (Star Wars), Imperial Nightswan AU, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Nightswan finds Thrawn instead of Parck, Nightswan is Still Nightswan, Sort of kind of a Rebel Thrawn AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29601618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: The ship Thrawn captures during his exile is definitely Imperial.The man who walks down the ramp and greets him is not.
Relationships: Nevil Cygni | Nightswan/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nurodo
Series: Nightthrawn 15 Day Ficlets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158710
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	The Taste of Him

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Day 10 Prompt: "Taste."
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too.

I.

The ship he captures is Imperial, but the man who walks down the ramp and greets him is not. What’s strange is that the officers surrounding him don’t seem to notice. True, there’s nothing outward about his appearance to give him away; his hair is within Imperial regulations, according to Thrawn’s studies. His uniform is squared away, his demeanor upright and calm, as any commander’s posture should be.

But there’s a subtle spark in his eyes that tips Thrawn off, and it’s a spark that only intensifies when Thrawn pretends not to speak Basic. This man sees through him, understands people at a glance the same way Thrawn does.

They recognize each other, even though they’ve never met before. In private, when the Imperial captain has him alone, they shake hands and Thrawn drops the thick accent, looking him dead in the eye.

“It’s a pleasure, Captain Cygni,” he says.

The Imperial gives him a wolfish smile and squeezes his hand.

“Call me Nightswan,” he says.

* * *

II.

Their meeting with the Emperor is one Captain Cygni hopes to avoid, but one Thrawn can barely wait for. The officers who join them don’t notice his anticipation; he doesn’t shake or fidget as some men do from excitement. He sits perfectly still. But nonetheless, in the seat across from him, Cygni gives Thrawn a knowing smile, pale and sickened by his own dread.

They don’t speak privately until hours after the meeting. In Cygni’s private chambers, he pours them each a glass of brandy and nurses it, his eyes ringed with shadows.

“He makes you uncomfortable,” Thrawn notes.

Cygni studies him quickly, furtively, buries his nose in the brandy glass. “You couldn’t feel it?” he says. “That heavy aura surrounding him.”

Thrawn pauses, unsure if their definitions of the word ‘aura’ are the same. He remembers the Emperor’s aura, yes — an aura of calm control, of arrogance earned through years of political expertise. An aura of power, deep understanding, genius. He can see the discomfort on Cygni’s face, so extreme that it seems closer to fear. He can’t reconcile it; Cygni is not the type of man to be made uncomfortable by mere power.

“Something off about him,” Cygni murmurs, his eyes far away. “A horrible darkness about him.” His gaze slides back to Thrawn, searching for something. “You didn’t feel it?”

Thrawn’s head tilts to the side. Cygni studies him, attempts a smile, looks away.

“You greeted him like an old friend,” he says into his brandy.

Thrawn doesn’t reply. Cygni takes another drink.

* * *

III.

His new uniform is lighter than what he’s used to, lacks the protective fibers woven into CEDF tunics. Easier to fight in, Thrawn supposes, but it doesn’t seem like bridge officers in the Empire do much fighting. He sits at the weapons station, silently studying the men around him, cataloging the few who carry themselves like warriors.

Cygni is one of them. He stops at Thrawn’s station, looks down at his newest officer with a smile.

“Lieutenant,” he says. He leans closer, lowers his voice so the others can’t hear. “The uniform suits you well.”

Thrawn dips his eyelids in acknowledgment, but doesn’t smile in return.

* * *

IV.

“Doonium,” Cygni says, affecting surprise. Thrawn mentally flags the note of falseness in Cygni’s voice for later study.

“Doonium, tibanna gas,” he says, scanning the list. “Both are being targeted, the former more than the latter. I’ve tracked the culprits to a probable home base.”

He sets the holoprojector to display his findings. Cygni circles his desk, takes a seat, steeples his fingers in deep thought. He studies the displays for ten minutes in absolute silence; then, with a muted sigh, he sits back.

“Speak freely,” he says.

One hand is beneath the desk, on his blaster. Thrawn removes his own weapon and places it on the table before him, watches something in Cygni’s eyes flicker. Slowly, the captain places both his hands flat on the desktop, within Thrawn’s sight. A sign of mutual trust.

“You’re feeding them information,” Thrawn says. “Guiding their movements. Your activities have gone beyond semi-illegal flaunting of Imperial rules. You are now actively allied with Rebel cells.”

Nightswan listens to him speak. His face is almost blank; his tension is subtle, but still there.

“I’ve been upfront with you since the beginning,” he reminds Thrawn. This is close to the truth, so Thrawn doesn’t challenge it. “Are you telling me you’ve suddenly developed a problem with my activities now?”

Thrawn takes a seat. He balances his datapad on his knee, gives it some thought. “You are an intelligent man,” he says, “with a deep sense of honor. You must have a reason.”

Despite the invitation, Cygni doesn’t give it to him. “But you despise disloyalty,” he says to Thrawn. 

Thrawn gives him no answer. He’s been accused of disloyalty himself countless times; without knowing Nightswan’s motivations, he cannot accurately judge his actions. It is entirely possible his covert operations fall under a direct order from Palpatine himself — but remembering Cygni’s reaction to the Emperor, Thrawn finds himself dismissing this option at once.

Cygni is watching him. Thrawn sees a forking path before him, knows he has a choice to make. 

“Tell me,” he says slowly, “what it is you’re trying to prevent.”

* * *

V.

It is, they tell him, inappropriate for two captains to serve on the same ship in the Imperial Navy. Cygni accompanies him to the promotion ceremony, stands by while an admiral pins Thrawn’s new rank plaque to his chest.

“You’ll be summoned to Coruscant soon,” Cygni tells him as they walk together afterward. The weight of their mutual secret hangs between them; the intricate web of piracy and anti-piracy could, in theory, collapse around them at any moment, exposing their accomplishments for what they really are. But this is not a concern for Thrawn, and he can tell it causes Cygni no stress either. They are as confident in each other as each man is in himself, comfortable in the knowledge that incompetence and laziness will not destroy them.

 _Unstoppable_ , Cygni called them one night recently, whispering the word against Thrawn’s skin. But nothing is unstoppable, Thrawn knows. Even if the odds of being caught are low, he cannot allow himself to forget them.

He turns to Cygni, studies his face.

“You’ll be given your own command,” Cygni tells him, a sad, crooked smile tugging at his lips. “I knew this day would come, but…”

“Not so soon,” Thrawn agrees. He makes his voice rough, telegraphing his empathy; the truth is, he’s been promoted exactly as fast as he thought he would be, but it would be no comfort to say so to Cygni. They watch each other, both considering what to say and what to leave unsaid.

Cygni’s hand brushes his. He looks away, out toward the garden wall.

“Can you face him?” Cygni asks, his face becoming a mask. Tension appears in the lines around his eyes. He means the Emperor; he doesn’t have to say it aloud.

“I can,” says Thrawn.

His confidence is unfeigned. Cygni remembers the darkened aura, allows it to haunt his memories.

Thrawn never felt it in the first place.

* * *

VI.

“My _son_ ,” the Emperor calls him, his tone affectionate and mocking all at once; Thrawn can tell that both emotions are true, a fact that ignites his curiosity more than his sense of unease. He notes the familial term, tries to explain the electric tingle it sends over his skin. He can classify it only as a type of magnetism, emotional in nature; he can go no further than that.

“Come closer, Captain," the Emperor says. "Come here to me.”

The red-helmeted guards are still, their pikes humming with energy, their heads turned to face the wall. Thrawn’s footsteps echo through the chamber. He stands before the Emperor, his expression carefully blank, his turmoil hidden. He accepts the Emperor’s touch — gnarled fingers probing his face as if testing him for something, twisting in his hair as if it’s an exotic fur up for sale at market, turning his head first to one side and then to the next as if he’s an animal.

The grip on his hair tightens. Palpatine pulls him close, lets his cool breath wash over Thrawn’s face.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” he whispers.

Thrawn’s expression doesn’t change. The dark aura in the room neither thickens nor intensifies. There _is_ no aura. He counts the seconds, his eyes cool and bored, until Palpatine smiles and lets him go. 

A dry palm caresses his cheek, touching him exactly where Cygni did when they said goodbye, and before he realizes it — by instinct — Thrawn is leaning in, expecting a kiss. The unidentifiable feeling that's been building in him since his promotion crests, washes down his back in a cold wave, erases his sense of pride almost entirely. He catches himself in time, stops himself — but Palpatine closes the gap.

An open-mouthed kiss, violent and firm, Thrawn’s head held in place by the fist in his hair. Dry lips, the sweet odor of decay on Palpatine’s tongue. Violating and sublime, nothing like Cygni’s kiss — the kiss of an equal.

This is the kiss a god bestows on a loyal subject. 

Palpatine releases him. Thrawn straightens up slowly, his hands still clasped behind his back. He watches the Emperor’s smile widen.

“We have much to discuss,” Palpatine says.

* * *

VII.

It is his first true military victory in the Empire — that is, the first ascribed to him, and not as a joint effort under Cygni’s command. He counts the casualties, makes his report, accepts his accolades with a cold affect.

Later, he checks his messages, finds Cygni waiting for him.

“A bloodbath,” Cygni says.

Thrawn doesn’t know what to tell him. This is war.

* * *

VIII.

He sends his data to Cygni, encrypted. Cygni sends his own data back. Together, it takes them less than a year to assemble what Orson Krennic is trying to hide.

“The Death Star,” says Cygni, his voice warped by static. Then: “I think we need to meet in person.”

It happens at an Ascension Week ball, the first Thrawn has ever attended. He wears the uniform of an admiral, coolly meets the stares of a dozen Imperials who side-eye him when he walks inside. He waits for two hours before stepping aside to meet Cygni.

Cygni, who hesitates, his step faltering when he reaches Thrawn. Cygni, whose smile slips, and whose eyes shift down Thrawn’s body in uncertainty, as if he’s not quite sure who he’s meeting. Thrawn frowns at him, and in the next second, Cygni wipes the strange expression away.

Later, in their private meeting space:

“A planet-killing weapon,” Cygni says.

“A waste of Imperial resources,” Thrawn agrees. He looks through the blueprints Cygni’s unearthed, his eyes cold. “The Tarkin Initiative,” he reads, his tone derisive. “There are far more efficient ways to win a war.”

“We’re not _at_ war,” says Cygni, his frustration clear. 

Thrawn bites his tongue. “Of course,” he says, voice even. “I misspoke.”

He knows of Cygni’s views on the Rebellion. He knows of Cygni’s tense alliance with them. He knows that Cygni does not consider the Empire’s anti-Rebel actions to be just, as a war between equals is just; that he sees Imperial movements not as retaliation against terrorism but as unprovoked attacks on an innocent people.

It is one of many things they’ve gradually learned to speak less about. Thrawn pulls up his own data, compares it against Cygni’s.

“We need to discuss action plans,” Cygni says.

Thrawn inclines his head. “I’ve put forth an opponent of sorts for the Death Star’s funds,” he says. He swipes through to a different set of blueprints. “The TIE Defender, equipped with a hyperspace drive and full shielding. With these ships phased in—”

“A weapon?” Cygni says.

His eyes are fixed on the blueprints. His face is pale, his eyebrows furrowed. He does not seem to notice Thrawn’s watchful stare.

“The Empire needs weaponry,” Thrawn says.

“To use against whom?” Cygni asks him. He stares at Thrawn’s blueprints a moment longer and shakes his head, aghast. “ _This_ is your plan? To defund one weapon by building another? Who does that help, Thrawn?”

The answer should be obvious. Thrawn narrows his eyes, looks from the Death Star’s blueprints to his own. The cost efficiency of his own project is clear enough. He can feel Cygni watching him; he meets his eyes with a frown.

“The Empire, of course,” he says.

* * *

IX.

A taut line cannot remain tense forever. Either it loosens eventually, losing its tension, or it breaks. 

Two years before the Battle of Yavin, Thrawn learns that the man known as Nevil Cygni has defected and joined a Rebel cell.

* * *

X.

They will not meet again. Both of them know this. The city of Batonn lies in the distance, visible only by its lights — lights that may be utterly extinguished by morning. In a field outside city limits, Thrawn comes face to face with Cygni, known now as Nightswan to everyone, not just to him.

In a quiet voice, he tells Cygni his only secret. He tells him of the Far Outsiders, with their ships the size of planets, each one large enough to blot out the sun. Every ship poses more of a threat to this galaxy than the Empire could ever pose to an individual Rebel cell. He has been honest with Nightswan before; he has never been _this_ honest.

Nightswan listens, but says nothing. Perhaps, after ten years of trying to convince Thrawn, he has nothing else to say. 

He turns down the offer of peace.

He turns down the invitation to join a nobler cause.

His eyes are hard. His stance is firm. He approaches Thrawn only once, closes the distance between them, closes his eyes and kisses cold, unresponsive lips. Thrawn is frozen, emotion surging in his chest, leaving him unable to kiss back until it’s too late, and Nightswan is already pulling away.

He shakes his head, attempts a laugh. His voice is irritated, full of rage and agony, wet and thick. “I thought so,” he says, not meeting Thrawn’s eyes. “I knew it the last time we met — I could sense it as soon as I saw you, but I told myself….”

Thrawn says nothing. He touches his lips, still tingling from Nightswan’s kiss, feels like he’s lost something vital. Or like something is coming back to him, resting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for one more kiss to unlock it. One more touch. He’s about to ask when Nightswan turns his head away; his shoulders shake; he stifles a sob or a scoff, and all Thrawn can do is watch, uncertain and suddenly feeling far away. Feeling cold, and like the world is darkening around him. His heart beats painfully, slowly, inside his chest. He thinks, inexplicably, of Palpatine, and closes his eyes. Something almost like comfort washes the pain away.

“Your aura’s different now,” Nightswan says while Thrawn's eyes are closed. His voice dips quieter, almost inaudible. There's the sound of grass whispering beneath his feet as he walks away.

“And you taste like him,” he says.


End file.
